


He Always Comes Back, Doesn't He?

by experimentaldrama



Category: Gintama
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gekijouban Gintama Kanketsu-hen: Yorozuya yo Eien Nare | Be Forever Yorozuya, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Joui War, Joui is Not Joy, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:05:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7496802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experimentaldrama/pseuds/experimentaldrama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gintoki goes back in time, successfully killing himself, the Shiroyasha, and saving the future from the Blight. Sakata Gintoki disappears from every following era, but what happens to his comrades, the ones he left behind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Always Comes Back, Doesn't He?

“He’ll be back,” Takasugi sneered, looking away. “He always comes back, doesn’t he?” Katsura had to nod. For all the blood that battle had spilled, they all had survived much worse. Katsura wasn’t sure even if the idiot would’ve died if he were the sole soldier remaining.

Still, a week should have passed by now- not that any of them had a way of telling. It wasn’t a good sign, and heads were already being turned, suspicions and fears and rumors spreading through the camp like a virus. Gintoki-san – missing – Shiroyasha-sama – weeks, maybe a month – he sometimes caught snatches of whispers from packs of soldiers. Katsura would usually give them a hard stare. Gintoki certainly wasn’t their biggest concern, he could take care of himself, but there were always preparations to be made, plans to be deliberated, swords to be sharpened…

By the second week there were no more whispers, only silence. Their subordinates would look at them with carefully blank expressions, as if not sure what emotion they were expected to express. Grief, fear, unease, curiosity- all seemed inappropriate. Katsura couldn’t bring himself to discipline them, either. “Don’t be so worried,” Takasugi said with clenched teeth. “Hell, this is probably the first time we’ve been away from him for more than a few days in years.”

Sakamoto, as always, only had a laugh to give, although with a distinct edge. “Ahaahaa! I swear, if that guy’s partyin’ someplace without me…”

Katsura looked at them for a prolonged few seconds, with pleading eyes. “Takasugi, Tatsuma-“

“Ah, shut up, Zura, and go organize your search party.”

“Not Zura, Katsura!”

The searching team, all volunteers, was composed of 19 men, plus Katsura and Sakamoto. It was agreed that although chances of an ambush were low, even leaving the camp for a few hours with none of the four was too dangerous. Takasugi agreed easily to stay behind.

The numbers were low enough to not be too noticeable, but still enough people to pan out and search the land quickly enough. Their battlefield of two weeks ago was grotesque, and the air was so thick with the smell of rotting corpses that it was almost impossible to breathe.

Katsura heard a gasp in the ranks behind him, and closed his eyes as there was a thump- a man falling to his knees- and distinct whimpering. No one spoke as the man grieved his lost friend, perhaps his lost lover. This was to be expected, and all of them had agreed to come knowing of the perils, emotionally and physically, of searching a sea of corpses. Not all of them would belong to the enemy. A few moments passed before the man stood and reassumed his position.

Katsura glanced at Sakamoto, a conclusion reached. “All right. You will assume the formations for a standard search. Split into groups of three and pan out- under no circumstances will you break from your teams. Understood?” Katsura said with a calm confidence he didn’t feel. He didn’t need to project far to reach his troops today. A yell of assent answered him.

This setup would only work under the assumption that all Amanto soldiers had left the site. A young man joined Sakamoto and Katsura’s group. That is, a young man with a pale and drawn face, dark circles marring the skin under lifeless eyes, and a ragged scar peeking out from under equally ragged clothes.

Katsura didn’t know his name, and he didn’t bother to ask- having such untended clothing meant he was bottom of the ranks, last to receive the new shipment of a few months ago. As much as they all tried, men like that could die within a week.

Although, he heard Sakamoto attempting conversation behind him. Sakamoto, always the people’s person. The man mumbled back, or at least mumbled in comparison to Tatsuma’s energetic questions. He heard the man, for once articulating his words, say, “Is he okay?” the words clearly directed towards Katsura.

Sakamoto didn’t answer, and the mood instantly darkened. The weak conversation didn’t start back up, with Katsura too intent on the search, Sakamoto lost in his thought, and the unnamed soldier clearly too confused or awkward to talk. They must’ve searched for hours on end, walking back and forth, kicking aside corpses while holding their breaths, their efforts proving fruitless.

The man didn’t seem to find anyone he knew, or if he did, he gave no sign of it. He must’ve been the reserved type. Finally Sakamoto and Katsura had to admit defeat. There was no sign of their comrade anywhere in the piles and piles of dead bodies, friend and foe laid across each other in their final moments. They slowly made their way back to their beginning position, Katsura still intently staring at the ground the whole way.

Their men were already lined up when they returned. They all wore similar coats of mud and grime and grim expressions. All of them looked up, almost in unison, when the three approached. Obviously they all wanted to say something, but they knew better than to.

“I swear, wherever that perm is, I’m going to kill him when I find him,” Katsura muttered, almost inaudibly.

“You might not need to,” the unnamed soldier, trailing behind him, added helpfully. Katsura spun around, fists clenched. He didn’t get far, though, before Sakamoto placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head.

His normally friendly expression was now washed with anger, though. “What’s your name?” Sakamoto barked, with a voice now laced with rage.

“I don’t have one, sir,” the man said, looking down.

“I see,” the conman replied quietly. Then, probably faster than the man’s eyes could follow, he lashed out with his right hand, slapping him across the face. The soldier’s face twisted around before his body followed, the loud smacking noise the only sound echoing across the sea of bodies.

The men still lined up behind them leaned towards them in shock, trying to see. They knew better than to leave formation, though. In the camp, they could joke with the four, but on the battlefield, they’d learned that steady obedience was the best way to survive.

The man without a name opened his eyes slowly, as if he’d blacked out for a split second, holding his cheek with a light hand, but the fiery red mark on his cheek was clearly visible between his fingers.

“You know better,” Sakamoto said with a controlled look in his eyes. “Next time something like this happens, don’t expect such leniency.”

Katsura stared down at the soldier as he picked himself up and found his way back into the line, all of his peers looking at him.

“We’re heading back for the day,” he ordered. “Any of you are free to opt out, but Sakamoto and I will be returning at first light.”

Sakamoto and Katsura reassumed their position leading the men back to camp.

//

They were met with hopeful expressions, expressions that turned blearily to dread.

Soon the news had spread through camp, even without either of their help- Gintoki-san was still nowhere to be found. It was a depressing sight to watch. Gintoki is their symbol of hope, their figure, the Shiroyasha, but many of the soldiers were friends with him. Most of them, especially those older than the four, were even inexplicably fond of the silver-haired soldier. Maybe Gintoki just had that effect, that curious glow, that not even Takasugi with his cold charisma, Sakamoto with his crafting of words, Katsura with his steadfast and reassuring ideals, could fully understand.

Takasugi was taking his first nap in a few days, and one that had only lasted a few hours. He was awake by the time the two made their way into the room, though. He sat up, one hand on the sheathed katana he had slept beside, before his vision cleared and he could see Katsura and Sakamoto clearly.

“Well?”

They shook their heads, and Takasugi looked away with a usual arrogant expression plastered on his face.

They sat and discussed the failed search, and their usual plans, except that one of the four was still missing.

“Why did you do that for me, Tatsuma?” Katsura finally asked.

“Ahaha! You have too much of a respectable reputation here, Zura, for a little brat like that to spur your rage, eh?”

“…Not Zura, it’s Katsura,” he said instinctively. “…And, I’m fairly sure that brat is older than we are.”

//

Takasugi had offered to take one of their places for the day, but after the episode yesterday, the two of them had to see the search through. Just as they had yesterday, they marched bleakly to the battle site, some of them tearing up to the scent, tensing up at the ankle-deep mess of flesh and bones.

Just as they had yesterday, they split up into teams of three. The no-named soldier was nowhere to be seen, but none of the others had fled, which left them with an uneven team of two. That was fine, though, because as much as the two were reluctant to broadcast, a third member would be a burden that they would have to protect, in the worse case scenario.

The hours passed with no yield once again. They kicked aside bodies and held their breath to the smells and got mad at Gintoki for making them do this when he was surely goofing off somewhere.

Just as they were ready to return empty handed once again, a panting voice sounded somewhere to their right.

“K-k-kaa-Katsura-saan! Sakamoto-san!” a man yelled. Both of them flinched at the sound.

“What is it?” Katsura was the first to recover. There was a strange look in his eyes, one that shouldn’t have been there, Katsura thought.

“It’s- it’s Gintoki-san- I-“

“Enough with the chatter, just lead us to him!” Katsura was too high strung to deliver his usual eloquence. Katsura and Sakamoto ran after him for what seemed like an eternity, none saying anything, all concentrating on simply running.

He might’ve drunk so much that they threw him out, and now they’re asking for a large sum of money—so big that it’ll wipe our funds—

Katsura wiped away the delusions from his mind. The man slowed, stopping to catch his breath, but Katsura and Sakamoto didn’t skip a beat. Just over the mountain… two men were crowded around a corpse.

Why would they do that? Was it one of their fallen friends?

“I thought they said they found Gintoki.” Katsura said to Sakamoto, his voice breaking halfway through. Sakamoto opened his mouth, but didn’t have a chance to say anything before they arrived at the scene.

The two men stepped aside, speechless in shock. What, Katsura wanted to say, what has you so shocked? This is war, these things happen, I hate it as much as you, but… The corpse was almost unrecognizable, covered in muck and blood and guts, but it hadn’t deteriorated at all.

A single wooden sword pierced him through the chest, in the most lethal spot. “It was covered in other bodies, probably covered it from the rain and bugs…” one of the men trailed off, voice weak.

“It?” Katsura said audibly. Sakamoto had fallen to his knees beside him. Katsura knelt and brushed some of the dirt off of Gintoki’s face, trying to smooth his crazy hair. “Get up, Gintoki, there’s a war to fight, you haven’t- it’s- it’s time to wake up, should we have given you more blankets, you’re so cold? The war- we can’t- win it unless you wake up, idiot – what about Shoyou, you said –“ His voice died off.

Sakamoto was staring blank faced. At the hair that should’ve been white, but was brown with dried blood and dirt. At the eyes that should’ve been open and the mouth that should’ve been drawling and cracking dick jokes at the most inappropriate times. The face that a month ago was alight with humor and trust. At the person who should’ve still been here, surviving the war, the soul that should’ve still glowed, their comrade who should’ve still lived here with them and the—at Sakata Gintoki.

Katsura now sat with Gintoki’s head on his legs, whispering things to him, light tears rolling down his cheeks. The three men stood awkwardly to the side, similarly grieving, but not boorish enough to intervene on such a private setting.

It had been such a long time, such a long time as Katsura sat there, cradling his head, trying to get him to wake up, and Sakamoto kneeling, staring off into space, unable to believe, unwilling to believe.

“Sakamoto-san,” one of them said gently, trying to wake him from his reverie. It took several attempts before Sakamoto looked up, his face pale, eyes lifeless. The man had to physically restrain himself from jumping back. “Sakamoto-san, it’s getting dark… we need to get back.”

He stared for a few seconds before nodding, leaning forward and saying something to Katsura. Katsura seemed to freeze before regaining himself. Together they took off his war armor and removed the protruding wooden sword, not yet grounded enough to wonder how this could’ve happened, how someone like Gintoki could be gone. They left only the simple yukuta beneath.

The men could’ve pointed out that the armor could’ve been used for someone else back at camp, but they didn’t. The two said nothing else as they each took one of his arms over his shoulder and started walking. They didn’t stop as they met the lined up soldiers, didn’t stop as the intake of breaths and whimpers echoed throughout the empty fields.

The soldiers only quietly followed as they kept walking, not faltering once through the long and tiring march back. The smell of fear almost overpowered the smell of corpses acquired once again in their searches. There would have to be time to grieve later, time to cry and hate the Amanto for taking such a man.

The reaction once they hit the camp was instant and sickening, much much worse than the disappointment of yesterday, for today all their fears and nightmares had been confirmed, and there was no denying the bent white head of the corpse Katsura and Sakamoto carried. Bare feet dragged in the dirt behind them, and the clear stench of decaying flesh invaded all of their senses.

Takasugi was standing in the center of the clearing, awaiting their return. They didn’t even reach him before he bent over in the grass and vomited. “Are you kidding me, idiot?” he screamed, wiping his mouth clean. There was a perfect, pristine silence at his words.

For the majority of them, that was the first time Takasugi had ever lost his cool composure. Katsura and Sakamoto didn’t flinch. They weren’t paying attention, and light tears still lingered in Katsura’s eyes.

They carried him into the nearest sickhouse, but there were no delusions to be found anymore, not anymore. Takasugi followed, glaring, fists clenched.

Despite the fact that it could lead them to a similar situation of the no named soldier, or even a flogging- despite the fact that in all of their time with the four no one had been subject to one- some soldiers tried to see into the sickhouse.

Somehow, it didn’t matter- spying soldiers were probably the last thing on the three’s mind.

Takasugi- Takasugi, the Kihetai commander, whom could kill five Amanto in a single strike without a moment’s hesitation, whom argued and fought with Gintoki on every possible occasion- was sitting on his knees, a barely visible stream of blood trailing down his face where he had bit his lip. His body was shaking, a repressed tremor that hadn’t shown before. His eyes were dry, his voice silent in his mourning, but his eyes were open and alight with rage.

Sakamoto sat criss-crossed, eyes still blank with disbelief, gripping Gintoki’s hand, trying to find a pulse. But the body, it was cold, and Gintoki’s heart no longer beat. His shoulders were also shaking, but his head was bent in a mourning motion, eyes shadowed and giving no hint to how he was possibly coping with the loss of his comrade. He mumbled a slow, repeated mantra that only expressed a bleak sadness.

Katsura still sat holding the white warrior’s head on his lap, a hand trying to brush the tangled curls into the softness they always held. He had pressed his own forehead to Gintoki’s, in a strange, uncomfortable looking position that somehow framed their intimacy in a single motion. He whispered strange words to him, whether of disbelief, or love, or accusation, none of them could tell, because Katsura’s eyes were squeezed shut, tears still leaking through and landing silently on his friend’s forehead.

Can’t he just wake up, for once, the lazy lump? He can just wake up, he can wake up and ask why we’re all crying, then he’ll panic because he’ll think it’s his own funeral, and I’ll correct him for calling me “Zura”, and Takasugi will pick a fight, and Tatsuma will laugh his full, contagious laugh once more…

They weren’t the only ones in tears- soon all those outside the door were sniffling and sobbing, and it seemed like the entire camp had bent their head in grief for the loss.

The soldiers weren’t sure how long the three sat with the body. It might’ve been hours, it might have been days, but none of them made a move to get up. Only after who knew how long, a single word was spoken out loud, so broken and still that no one could tell which of the three it had come from, but they didn’t need to, since the sentiment was shared equally by all of them.

“Why?”

**Author's Note:**

> For all the seriousness of this, the Yorozuya and everyone else would probably go back to save him every time, even in infinite realities. My first work on a new account, so I hope you all enjoy!


End file.
